Avant Garde
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Bored and desperate for distraction, Sherlock accepts an obscure case that takes him and John to Paris [Hollowverse].
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** As always, pay attention to the small details.

* * *

><p>"Stamps."<p>

The word was leaden, Sherlock's bored, polished baritone emphasizing the 'm' and the 'p', lips pursing and releasing in a way that might have distracted John under other circumstances.

The young man sat in the client's chair nodded nervously, casting a quick glance at John as though for explanation or support, and the doctor could see the words "how did you know?" forming, but Sherlock – as usual – ploughed right into the explanation.

"Thin, pale," the detective began, and John resisted pointing out that applied to Sherlock just as much, "don't get out much and when you do, it's only travel to go back indoors. The hunch to your shoulders suggests you spend a lot of time sitting and looking at something – something small, perhaps through a magnifying lens or a microscope. Could be both. Steady hands – very steady – an important trait for your… pastime. You work a lot with your hands, and one _might_ expect evidence of dryness or washing, but of course not, because you wouldn't risk getting all those oils on something so valuable, so gloves. Cotton, though, given the state of your skin and the possibility of abrasive damage – even ever so slightly – from latex or nitrile."

Sherlock paused for breath – _a rare feat_, John thought, and he could see the astonishment on the younger man's face, the rush of surprise and admiration lining up to be voiced.

"But your lips," Sherlock continued, and John watched the stamp enthusiast deflate a bit as he was pre-emptively silenced. "Dry, cracked, used to being licked. You're a _purist_," Sherlock spoke the word as if he were holding it at arm's length, "none of the self-adhesive variety for you. And that's not where the interesting ones are anyway, are they? All the new ones are rubbish, so few flaws, no real _character_.

"You're fastidious, but it doesn't extend beyond the collecting… why waste your time? Friends all the same bent, no girlfriend, visit the family only on holidays or when pressed into it, job is good enough to support your interests without being too demanding or involve too much work with the public. Or with anyone. Something equally as finicky, numbers – accounting, most likely. Not for a large firm. Nothing that would require too much reporting of your time, as long as you get the job done, no one asks any questions or cares too much about your whereabouts. Quiet of course, but your other living habits… cluttered, at a guess – and not much of a guess – not much consideration for anything else, easier not to cook because it takes time and takeaway doesn't. Workspace kept neat out of necessity, nothing else gets the same consideration. Don't socialize much beyond your circle of fellow collectors, but aren't bothered by noise around you – probably don't notice. Excellent concentration skills, to the exclusion of all else.

"Oh, and your sister works in a flower shop somewhere near here."

The younger man started, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"How did you know that?"

John couldn't resist rolling his eyes, pursing his lips to contain a sigh.

"You mentioned it in your initial email," Sherlock replied, waving a hand vaguely, projecting boredom, but John could see him congratulating himself internally on being so clever.

"But not the other stuff!" the young man protested.

"Elementary deduction, really," Sherlock sniffed. "We'll let you know."

"But I haven't even seen it!"

"Oh," Sherlock said, blinking, nonplussed. "Yes. Of course. John?"

John pushed himself to his feet, shooting Sherlock a pointed look that was, as usual, completely ignored, and beckoned to the potential tenant to follow him downstairs. He showed the young man – whose name he hadn't bothered to remember – dutifully around the flat. Given Sherlock's assessment of their visitor, John wasn't really surprised that there were no exclamations of delight at the space or the lighting.

"Is there a form I need to fill out?" the young man asked after the brief tour was complete. John gave his head a shake, putting on his best reassuring doctor's expression.

"No," he said, all false encouragement in his tone. "Sherlock's brilliant at this sort of thing. Well, you've seen. We have a couple more people coming to look," that was a familiar refrain, and a lie, "but we'll let you know by the end of the day tomorrow."

There was a thank you, an awkward handshake (which John always found annoying), and a rush of relief when he was able to close the front door behind the soon-to-be disappointed prospective tenant. He lingered near the door, half wondering if he was listening for the young man to walk away, half lulled by the sound of traffic from the street outside. Something in the atmosphere had lifted, and he hated that it felt like this every time he saw someone out, knowing full well that Sherlock had found a reason (or reasons) for denying them the ground floor flat.

It was relief, pure and simple, and John avoided thinking about what that meant, distracting himself by trying to work out what Sherlock would be up to on the floor above him. The sound of footsteps wasn't a good enough indicator; Sherlock always threw himself into _something_ after a viewing, but it was never the same thing. As it deliberately avoiding a pattern of activity could stop reality from encroaching.

They needed to let the ground floor flat. They'd needed to let it for months. John knew that. He knew Sherlock knew that. They'd placed an advert, they'd interviewed a handful of people.

All of them rejected by the detective's caustic insight.

And the flat still stood empty.

_No_, John told himself. Not empty. Because it had never been properly cleared out. Oh, the furniture would stay with the flat, but there were still things there that were _hers_, things neither he nor Sherlock were willing to give up.

As if that would make it finally real. Inescapable.

John closed the door to their flat, shutting out that contemplation, grateful for the familiar irritation of Sherlock tearing the living room apart in search of something.

"Sherlock–"

"Boring!" his partner snarled, flinging an angry glare John's way, grey eyes glinting. "How can they stand it, John? To be so _bloody_ boring?"

"I bet he doesn't think he is," John sighed, folding his arms, playing the game willingly.

"_Stamps_," Sherlock spat, still-short curls bouncing as he shook his head once, vehemently. "Why? What's the _point_?"

"You mean, what's the point of being obsessed with something to the exclusion of everything else?" John asked.

"Precisely!" Sherlock snapped, flinging his arms wide, and John had to bite down on a pointed remark, knowing if Sherlock caught it in his expression, the detective would ignore it. His talent for self-deception was almost as great as his talent for the observation of others – and John didn't _quite_ let himself follow that train of thought into what it might say about him.

"Stamps," his partner muttered again, overturning a couch cushion and making a disgusted noise when whatever he thought he was looking for failed to materialize.

"I'll just get them, shall I?" John sighed.

"I don't _want_ a cigarette!" Sherlock snarled. John arched an eyebrow; that probably meant he did, but wasn't willing to cop to it because John had suggested it. It was – the doctor had discovered – an effective way of keeping Sherlock off nicotine.

When it worked.

Which wasn't always.

Reverse psychology was tricky with Sherlock, who was wont to recognize it being used against him at inconvenient moments.

"Tea, then?" John asked.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered without pausing in his apparently futile search. John considered asking what their flat had done to deserve such treatment, but he recognized Sherlock's moods from long experience, and there was no humour in this one. He made tea without comment, earning only a glare for his efforts when Sherlock snatched the proffered mug from him.

He sank into his chair, watching as Sherlock redid the sofa enough to flop himself onto it, long legs sprawled in front of him, and somehow managing not to spill tea all over himself.

"_Stamps_," the detective muttered again, eyes casting away from John's.

"At least he'd be quiet," John pointed out, without any real conviction to his words.

"Hateful," Sherlock said against the rim of his mug, and John allowed himself the moment of distraction watching full lips close over the porcelain. He wondered where Sherlock's mood dropped him on his personal physical tolerance spectrum. John usually had a very good idea, but there were times – these times, after interviews – where he found it difficult to judge.

A good shag could be just what Sherlock needed to relieve some stress, or the suggestion of it could shut him down completely.

The lines of tensions that jutted against his partner's neck answered the question for him. Sherlock probably wasn't even aware of his own response, although he may have been aware of the line of thought behind John's gaze.

John shelved it, watching Sherlock relax minutely. He wondered, passingly, if he should do up a catalogue of Sherlock's reactions to him. Comparing it to the mental catalogue Sherlock kept of John's responses might distract him.

For five minutes.

"Well, he was better than the last one," John offered. Sherlock didn't deign to answer, curling his lip and slumping further down, resting the tea cup precariously on the arm of the sofa. At John's slight wince, the detective huffed an aggrieved sigh and snatch the mug up again, shooting John another glare.

The doctor pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room to sink down beside his partner, who stiffened and pulled back when John dipped his hand into the pocket of the blue silk dressing gown. Grey eyes flared a warning John had already read, and he held up Sherlock's phone as reassurance before scanning through his email.

"Art theft?" he suggested, earning a pointed look in return. "Cheating spouse?" Sherlock huffed a sigh, managing to slump down even further, long toes pulling at the rug. "Missing dog?"

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock muttered. "Does it glow in the dark?"

"Doesn't say," John replied, smiling slightly. "Insurance fraud?"

"Who does these people think I am?" Sherlock snapped.

"The man in the Sherlock Holmes hat," John replied.

"Hasn't there at least been a murder?" Sherlock demanded, snatching the phone from John, scrolling through the messages himself. "Liar, liar, adulterer, liar and adulterer, thief, delusional, making it up, hysterical, and another adulterer."

"What is the world coming to?" John asked, unable to repress the small smile quirking on his lips despite the dark glower Sherlock threw his way.

"Peaceful and law abiding," the detective snorted, pitching the phone onto the coffee table with a clatter that made John wince. "I can calculate angles and force accurately, John."

"That'd be the third screen you shattered, right?"

"Your inability to observe never ceases to amaze me," Sherlock said, and John kept a comment to himself about his skill at observing his partner's moods. "The screen's fine."

"If you keep that up, it won't be," John sighed, pushing himself to his feet. Sherlock waved the empty tea mug at him.

"Words?" John suggested.

"Please, John, may I have another cup?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

"Make it yourself, genius."

"You're going to the kitchen," Sherlock pointed out.

"To put mine away. Why don't you get yourself dressed? I could use a walk."

"What _is_ your obsession with air?" Sherlock muttered, folding his arms, mug buried in the crook of his elbow.

"Breathing's boring till you stop doing it," John replied, leaning down to press a kiss against his partner's forehead. Sherlock squirmed, but not enough to make John think he was serious.

"You don't know that," he pointed out.

"Nor do you," John replied.

"Unwise to theorize without all the facts."

"This isn't an experiment either of us gets to undertake," John said, putting a steely hint in his tone – he never really knew, not with Sherlock. "Are you coming, or are you going to sit there and sulk all day?"

Sherlock huffed, rolling onto his side, back to the room – and still holding his mug, John noted. He waited a moment, then leaned down, pressing another kiss against Sherlock's warm skin. Grey eyes slitted open, flickering his way, muscles relaxing slightly under John's lips.

"I won't be long. An hour at most. I've got my phone if you want to track me and join me."

Sherlock grunted, burying his face in a cushion, and John knew he'd be on his own today. Occasionally, the need for company won out over Sherlock's strops, and the detective would catch him up in the park. John never commented on it – Sherlock needed his space too.

And, if he was completely honest with himself – something he liked to avoid when it came to this topic – each of them was still working out how to deal with Mrs. Hudson's death. John found it easier to leave before the emptiness of the downstairs flat became a physical sensation.

He wasn't sure Sherlock had found a particular method for dealing with it, but he _was_ sure it didn't involve drugs, and was happy have that bit of knowledge.

He made his way to Regent's Park, wandering the paths without any real destination in mind, watching boaters on the lake and the other pedestrians with only vague interest. Sherlock would be picking apart the details of their lives within seconds, but John enjoyed the anonymity sometimes. It was nice not to be immediately recognized, too. When he was on his own, he often went unremarked; Sherlock's fame (or notoriety, John supposed with a faint smirk) had grown after his return from the dead and the three days missing in Wales.

John didn't mind the work that brought in, but it was relaxing not to have people stare.

When the sensation that had driven him from the flat eased, he settled at a café, ordering himself a tea and something small to eat, and pulled up a book on his phone. The sun was warm enough to offset the cool breeze, and the quiet murmur of voices and traffic faded into a pleasant background hum as he read. The moment of relaxation was so perfect that John wasn't the least bit surprised when his phone buzzed, showing Sherlock's number and breaking the peaceful silence.

"Paris, John!" Sherlock exclaimed before John could even say hello – not that the daft genius he called his partner ever bothered with conversational norms when it came to speaking with him.

"Um, nope. Still in London," John replied, lips quirking into a smile.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "Not _you_, John, don't be absurd."

"Ah," John said. "You're taking me on a romantic holiday then?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, the suggestion of held breath – John could practically smell the smoke as Sherlock raced to switch mental tracks and figure out a way to placate his partner without disappointing him.

He grinned.

"What's the case?" he asked.

"You need to book us tickets." John was sure he caught a hint of relief behind the order, although it might have been wishful thinking. "Use Mycroft's card, I don't want to be sitting in the cramped section."

"Don't you think he'll notice?" John asked, the smile still playing on his lips as he gathered his things to head home.

"And a hotel," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. "I'll send you a name; who knows where you'd put us if left to your own devices."

"Somewhere we can afford?" John suggested. _In Paris, in August, last minute?_ he added to himself.

"Don't be ridiculous, John; use Mycroft's card for that, too."

"Does he have some account just for you to keep you happy?"

There was a derisive snort on the other end of the line.

"I'm sure he'd like to think he does," Sherlock sniffed. "That's not the account we'll be using. I'll pack your things."

"Oh no you bloody won't!" John snapped back, picking up his pace. "I'll be home in five minutes. I don't even want to think what you'd bother packing for me – or what you'd leave out."

"I'm a genius, John," Sherlock replied with feigned coolness. "I can be relied upon to pack a suitcase."

"Yeah," John said with a grin, still keeping up his quick stride toward Baker Street. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"


	2. Chapter 2

"You're joking, right?"

The look Sherlock shot him from across the small space in the cab would have been enough to turn the atmosphere frosty if it hadn't been mid-August – and if John hadn't known his partner so well.

"Do you imagine I'd travel to Paris as a joke?" the detective drawled.

"As a ruse, maybe," John replied.

"A ruse for what?" Sherlock demanded by way of reply. "This is a _case_, John!"

"_This_," John snapped, waving the letter for emphasis, "sat on your desk for months after you decided it was boring and the author was too French!"

"Don't be absurd." The offhanded tone made John repress a growl. "If you'd brought this to my attention, I'd remember. _This_ is the kind of case I've been waiting for!"

"What? Wait– just– no. First of all, _you_ opened it and translated it for me – it's written in French! I don't speak French!"

"That's your handwriting," Sherlock said, nodding to the notes John had jotted down after the fact.

"Based on _your_ translation! I just said I don't speak French! I know it's hard to listen to the sound of other people's voices–"

"There are online translation programmes," Sherlock murmured dismissively, and John couldn't contain the irritated sigh this time.

"This is all on you," he snapped. "_You_ opened it, _you_ told me what it said, _you_ decided it was boring because – if I remember right – some employee stole it or he binned it, because that's exactly what people do with priceless family heirlooms."

"It's not priceless," Sherlock said with infuriating reasonableness. "It says '_precious_ gemstone' right in the letter."

"It's been five months," John sighed. "Why is it just _now_ interesting?"

"It was always interesting," Sherlock sniffed. "Just because you couldn't appreciate it at the time…"

"Talking about yourself in the second person now?" John enquired, arching an eyebrow.

"I don't see why you're so upset. You _are_ getting a free trip to Paris out of this. City of Love, if memory serves."

"Yes, because that's precisely why you got it in your head to go to Paris this very minute."

"It was at least an hour ago, John," Sherlock replied with a scowl.

"It's because you were bored out of your tree and Greg's probably sick of answering your whiny texts."

"I haven't got a tree," Sherlock replied primly. "And my texts are always insightful and informative."

"Sure they are," John muttered, shaking his head – truth be told, it wasn't too difficult to understand why Sherlock had snatched up the first thing he could right now. _How_ this particular letter had ended up being the first thing Sherlock had seen had been somewhat of a mystery until John had got home to find the flat more or less turned upside down.

The detective claimed it was 'tidying up', which was Sherlock-code for 'I need to not be thinking right now'. The letter, which had likely been resting innocuously in some forgotten pile, had probably only caught his attention because of John's handwriting on it.

_Well,_ the doctor thought, _better than nothing._

John himself had found the letter intriguing back when Sherlock had first opened it and declared it boring and pointless, but he also knew when not to push it.

And he had to admit Sherlock was right. He _was_ getting a free trip to Paris out of it –although John wondered what Mycroft would say when he saw the bill. Since they were going anyway, he was fairly certain he could wrangle an extra day or two out of his partner after Sherlock had dazzled everyone with his brilliance and was soaring on a post-case high.

He flipped the envelope over, eyes skimming the quick, sure handwriting of the return address.

_Alexandre Georges, 511 Rue Avenel_.

"He does know we're coming, right?"

"He's been expecting us for five months," Sherlock murmured, waving a hand vaguely.

"In other words, you haven't bothered to contact him."

"_He_ contacted _me_. He should be grateful we're bothering to come at all."

John carefully didn't point out that a simple phone call or email could have saved them the trouble and that Sherlock solved most of his cases from the comfort of their home. It was precisely that location Sherlock was trying to avoid.

_Could get that holiday even earlier_, he mused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. All sorts of things could have happened between Georges sending the letter and now – including the missing gem being recovered, or the client himself simply not being available.

John forewent mentioning that as well; he was taking his free trip to Paris no matter what.

If there was nothing for them to do, he'd find more creative ways to distract the detective. If there _was_ a case, with criminals to chase and police to harass, well then, all the better.

* * *

><p>They garnered more attention at the airport that John had anticipated; Sherlock scowled through it – more, John thought, because he had to share his limelight with the doctor, who took compliments about the blog with delight. A muttered word to Sherlock had the detective if not smiling for photographs, then at least not wearing his 'everyone else is an idiot' glower. John dealt with the comments on Sherlock's hair from readers who were tracking its regrowth thanks to the blog, managing to cut Sherlock off before he got out his most incisive remarks.<p>

When they made it onto the plane, he sank gratefully into the (relatively) generous seat, thankful that Sherlock had insisted Mycroft foot the bill. The attendants in the small business class cabin were more discreet than the other passengers had been in the terminal, but he caught a couple of knowing looks regardless.

He enjoyed the relative anonymity – not to mention the free drinks – while it lasted; John had serious doubts that Mycroft would let them travel back the same way. At very least, there'd be a cancelled credit card. More likely, John suspected wryly, they'd be summarily rounded up by some shadowy government agency.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said when John voiced this thought. "If he doesn't know by know, he will do by the time we've landed. This time, he'll _know_ where we are."

"He can't know yet," John pointed out. "We haven't got any irritated texts or calls."

"I turned our mobiles off," Sherlock replied, and John was sure he hadn't imagined that glint in his partner's eyes. "Safety procedures, after all."

"You probably did it in the cab," John sighed, slouching down comfortably in his seat. Sherlock didn't say anything, but looked smugly pleased with himself.

Whatever celebrity they had in the UK apparently didn't extend to France – they were waved through customs by a disinterested agent who glanced only sparingly at their British passports and asked no questions. John wondered – privately – if the lack of attention would put Sherlock off just as much as its overabundance, but there was a determined spring to his partner's step.

He was the case.

Even if the client didn't know it yet.

"We need to find the cab stands," John murmured as they wound their way into the main concourse. "I don't suppose you'd consent to take a coach. There _is_ one, you know. Just as a point of interest."

Sherlock's scowl was answer enough, and made John grin.

"Not necessary," his partner said.

"What, the coach?"

"Or the cab."

"We're going to walk, then? Or maybe Mycroft's arranged a car for us? Out of the goodness of his heart?"

"I shudder to think of the day he starts making loving gestures, John. No, we're neither walking nor getting a driver. I've arranged a vehicle for us."

"_You're_ going to drive? On French roads?"

"You make it sound as if they differ significantly from other roads."

"They do drive on the right here, you know. And you can't just decide not to because you're British."

"I know how to drive in France," Sherlock replied primly.

John raised his eyebrows and grinned when Sherlock subjected him to a short, stony silence as they approached the desk. He cast a questioning look at his partner when the agent asked them to wait before disappearing briefly, but Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, projecting an air of innocence that never failed to leave John even more suspicious.

"The keys, _monsieur_, and, of course, two helmets as you requested."

"A motorcycle?" John asked as two polished black helmets were set on the counter in front of them, shaded visors gleaming.

"Very well deduced, John," Sherlock replied, corners of his lips twitching smugly.

"Wait– can you even drive a motorcycle?"

"Would I be renting one if I couldn't?"

"You?" John asked. "Probably. You're a madman behind the wheel."

"This has two fewer wheels than a typical vehicle, so you should be pleased. Of course, if you'd rather drive…"

"No, no," John said, refusing to admit he couldn't actually do it – not that Sherlock wouldn't have figured that out, but he wasn't giving his partner the actual satisfaction, "it was your mad plan, you see it through. Just, you know, don't get us killed."

* * *

><p>By the time they reached the hotel, it wasn't Sherlock John was worried about causing an accident, but himself.<p>

He'd settled for holding his partner loosely around the waist – it felt somewhat more secure than the hand holds – and it hadn't escaped even his observational abilities that his grip had tightened during the trip.

Not out of nervousness. Driving a Land Rover off road through possibly IED-infested terrain had prepared him for almost anything, even a motorcycle trip through the heart of Paris.

The simple fact was that the longer they drove, the sexier Sherlock became.

He _did_ know how to drive a motorcycle in Paris, and very expertly as far as John's limited experience let him judge. They wove smoothly in and out of traffic, racing down the motorway towards the city's centre, zipping seamlessly along side other bikes. It became harder and harder to pay attention to the sights and landmarks around them as he focused on the way Sherlock moved with the bike, as if he were born to it, as if it was an extension of his body. It obeyed him without question, slowing, speeding up, slipping into the free spaces between cars or lanes.

It didn't help John's resolve one bit when Sherlock pulled the helmet off after they'd come to a halt, short, dark curls tumbling haphazardly around his face.

_We're on a case_, John reminded himself sternly as he forced his concentration to untying their overnight bags and following his partner into the hotel. The lobby itself distracted him, if only briefly, as he drank in what Mycroft was unwittingly paying for and listened to Sherlock negotiate for their room key, all while certain the reservation would have been cancelled and they'd be evicted unceremoniously.

But if Mycroft knew, he was either choosing to let them get away with it, or was waiting to see where this went. Knowing the elder Holmes, it was probably the latter. Spontaneous generosity wasn't particularly his style, especially with his baby brother. If he could leverage this for something in the future, John knew full well that he would.

John was even all right until they reached the room, but the sight of Sherlock dropping the two helmets casually on the bed undid him again. A deep breath kept him from crossing the room and knocking his partner bodily onto the mattress.

"You bloody do this on purpose, don't you?" he growled.

"Do what?" Sherlock said with his oh-so-innocent expression.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I haven't the faintest idea," Sherlock sniffed.

"The motorcycle, the–" John gestured wordlessly at Sherlock, fumbling for the right word, "you."

"The me?"

"You owe me," John said, crossing his arms, adopting his best captain's stance and glare.

"I do?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. "And what, precisely, do I owe you?"

"Sex," John said bluntly. "Lots of it. Bringing me to Paris, getting the motorcycle, being all… exactly what you always are."

"Myself?" his partner suggested.

"That."

"We're on a case."

"And after the case, we'll still be in Paris."

"Excellently observed," his partner murmured, a small smile playing on his lips, a familiar gleam in his grey eyes. John drew another deep breath to keep himself composed, firming his military stance even more. "I suspect you'll have ample opportunity to collect on your debt. But for now," Sherlock tossed one of the helmets across the small space, and John fumbled to catch it, "we have work to do."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Rue Avenel is not a real street in Paris. I claim creative license.


	3. Chapter 3

The building was modern, all smooth, sleek lines rising up at least a dozen storeys above street level. Just far enough outside the city's centre that they'd lost the tourists and the area had taken on a residential feel – it was a touch too suburban for John's taste, which make him smirk at himself. Baker Street had spoiled him.

_In more ways than one_, he mused, letting his eyes wander down Sherlock's lean frame as the detective led the way toward the building's main entrance. He should have known the attention wouldn't go unnoticed; Sherlock glanced over a shoulder, arching an eyebrow pointedly.

"Focus, John."

"All right, all right," John chuckled, holding up his hands in defeat. Sherlock gave him another glare for good measure. The expression vanished as he turned away, replaced smoothly by one of professional boredom as he strode into the lobby, subjecting it to a cold scrutiny.

John didn't kid himself that the roll of his eyes went unremarked, but Sherlock chose to ignore him this time, honing in instead of the well-dressed man behind the security desk.

"_Bonjour, messieurs._"

"I'm here to see Alexandre Georges," Sherlock snapped, and John knew full well the English was for his benefit. His partner's aptitude for languages had ceased to surprise him, but the protective – almost proprietary – reaction did.

Only Sherlock, he thought, could take offense at a French person speaking French in France because he'd had the audacity to do so in front of John.

A short-lived flicker of surprise crossed the guard's face but he nodded.

"_Bien sur_. Is 'e expecting you?"

"I should think so," Sherlock sniffed. John resisted the urge to elbow him – sharply – in the ribs.

"Your name, please?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The guard raised his eyebrows, not, John thought, in recognition, but rather surprise at the unconventional name. The doctor wondered how that would be managed with a French accent – or in French, he realized, because it was unlikely the guard would communicate with one of the residents in English just for them.

There was, in fact, a rapid conversation in French that John strongly suspected went beyond simply announcing who they were and being told to send them up. The guard's puzzled expression and eyes flickering their way backed that up, as did the irritated crease between Sherlock's eyes as the call continued.

"Told you that you should have called," John murmured, earning himself another sharp glare.

"He'll let us in," Sherlock muttered in reply.

"We'll see."

"Fifty quid."

"It's Euros here, you know. And you don't have a good track record betting against me."

"Euros then," Sherlock sighed.

"You're on."

"Good. He's just agreed to send us up."

"Oh bloody– that is _not_ fair."

"Using your own weaknesses against you? You should have paid more attention in French classes, John."

"I _will_ get you back for this," John growled.

"I look forward to seeing you try," Sherlock replied, putting a bright smile on his face as the guard rung off, gesturing them toward the lifts. John swallowed a curse, striding after his partner, who breezed into the glass and chrome elevator with a smug, triumphant smirk.

The client was waiting for them in the corridor when they stepped out of the lift, hovering just outside his flat. The grin that split his lips was one of pure delight, and the expression startled John into a half moment's pause.

He wasn't used to seeing such enthusiasm from a client. Nervousness, tenuous hope, desperation, a mix of all three… but not excitement, like a kid at Christmas getting exactly what he'd wanted.

Georges' age didn't help temper the expression at all; John had been expecting someone much older from the wording and tone of the letter, but he was probably younger than Sherlock by a year or two, no more than mid-thirties at best, and disarmingly friendly when he greeted them in accented but fluent English.

Even fairly smartly dressed in crisp jeans and pressed, short-sleeved shirt, he didn't strike John as a wealthy man missing a valuable family heirloom. The doctor checked himself – after all, they'd had moneyed clients in the past who didn't look it – but the flat they were ushered into suggested a comfortable life rather than a lavish one.

There was something faintly familiar about him, and John wished he'd had some time to do a bit of background research – or that Sherlock had bothered to even look Georges up before hauling them halfway across Europe.

_It'd be nice to know what we're getting into, even once_, he thought with an inward snort.

"Sit, sit, sit," Georges bade them, waving them onto a cozy couch. The nervousness on Sherlock's face at the scatter of baby toys across a thick, pale carpet almost distracted John from the unexpectedness of their client. He grinned, determined to be at ease if only because Sherlock wasn't – and he doubted it helped the detective much that Georges was of a height with him. He had obvious Asian ancestry – Japanese, John thought – but some European as well.

"Coffee? I may 'ave some tea…"

"Coffee's fine," John said, speaking for both of them as Sherlock shook himself back with a general glare. "Black with two sugars for him, milk and no sugar for me."

"_Un moment_," Georges said, which John understood well enough. Their client vanished into his kitchen, reappearing shortly with freshly brewed coffee, and John grinned again at the suspicious way Sherlock sniffed his, as if expecting poison.

_Would serve him right_, John thought.

"Forgive me," Georges said, claiming an overstuffed arm chair for himself, deftly moving a baby monitor so it was resting on the table next to him. Now that John noticed it, he could hear the faint sounds of soft breathing coming from it. "You probably 'ear this all time, but meeting you – it is amazing! I am a 'uge fan, _monsieur _'olmes – the website is, well, I would say a work of art, but perhaps a work of science would be a better compliment?"

Sherlock actually looked nonplussed for a moment, but Georges didn't seem to notice, still beaming like a kid at Christmas.

"And the blog, too, Doctor Watson. It is a gift to turn life into an exciting story, no?"

John found himself momentarily wordless, too – he hadn't quite thought of it like that before. Although Sherlock had certainly accused him of fictionalizing the truth, but he'd never really considered it a talent, and certainly not a gift.

"Thanks," he managed.

"The pleasure is all mine," Georges assured him. "I love the cases, always such brilliant deductions, _monsieur _'olmes! _Fantastique_! I 'ave learned a thing or two from them – and I 'ope you don't mind, 'ave used them a bit myself."

"You have?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course! I 'ave found your solutions very 'elpful in devising my own – and I should tell you, I 'ave a friend or two in the _gens d'armes_ who should admit the same."

Sherlock's confused and pleased expression was a new one on John, and he might have taken the opportunity to enjoy the way his partner was obviously scrambling for mental footing if he hadn't been doing the same.

"You would do well 'ere in _Paris_, I should think, but of course, 'ome is 'ome and you must get cases from all over the world, yes?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock managed, casting a befuddled look at John, as if the doctor had the answers he didn't.

"That's why we're here," John put in.

"Is it?" Georges asked, face lighting up even more. "May I ask what the case is? 'ave you solved it? No– you can't need my 'elp, can you? I'd be delighted!"

"It's your case," John said. "Isn't it?"

"My case?" Georges asked, dark eyes flickering his way.

"Your case," Sherlock confirmed, the superior, clipped tone back in his voice – John doubted he had any idea what was going on, but had at least managed to suppress his shock. "You wrote me earlier in the year."

"I'm sure I didn't," Georges said, the confusion that had leeched from Sherlock's expression filling his.

"John," Sherlock said, and the doctor fumbled to put his coffee aside and pull out the letter. "A missing family gemstone, if I remember correctly."

"No, I'm sure I don't 'ave one of those." He leaned forward, taking the letter from John, eyes skimming the page before moving back across it more slowly. A puzzled frown shifted into another bright smile.

"Ah yes, this 'appens to me also."

"What does?" Sherlock demanded, but the sound of quiet fussing from the monitor distracted Georges' attention.

"_Excusez-moi, s'il-vous-plait,_" he said, hurrying out of sight down the corridor.

"What the hell is going on?" John muttered. His partner made a sharp motion with his hand, silencing all further discussion. John pursed his lips, swallowing his questions and doing his best not to look completely at sea when Georges returned, balancing a baby girl – about six months old, if John was any judge – on his hip. She stared at them with an infant grogginess, sucking absently on a pacifier.

"My daughter, Élodie," he said, bouncing her gently as he reclaimed his seat. The girl squirmed a bit, reaching for the floor; Georges set her down and John watched, bemused, as she plucked a toy at random to clutch while staring at them.

"Mister Georges–"

"Please, Alexandre," Georges interrupted.

"What did you mean, this happens to you, too?" Sherlock pressed.

At the sound of his voice, the baby made a gleeful sound, pitching her toy aside and crawling across the carpet to grip the legs of his trousers and pull herself to standing. John couldn't quite swallow a laugh at Sherlock's startled, almost terrified expression. Élodie grinned around her dummy, smacking one of his knees insistently.

"Go on then," John said, Sherlock's frozen, petrified look only making him grin more. "She wants you to pick her up."

"I don't–"

"She's very good with strangers," Georges said cheerfully. Sherlock's grey eyes flickered over the room quickly, as if seeking escape, but pinned by the tiny human clutching him.

Carefully, as if she might explode, Sherlock picked the girl up, settling her on one knee and patting her vaguely on the back in a way that told John he'd seen it done and suspected it was the right thing to do.

"The letter," Georges said, drawing their attention back to him. "I get them, too. From my readers."

"Your readers?" John echoed.

"They can be quite entertaining, no? Some very good ideas sometimes. I've used one or two of them in my novels, just pieces 'ere and there. Inspiration comes from strange places, does it not?"

"Yeah," John said, feeling as if an answer was required of him. It dawned on him, slowly, that they were dealing with a writer, probably a novelist.

"You didn't write that?" Sherlock demanded, glaring at the letter. Georges gave him an understanding smile, which John suspected probably didn't help the situation.

"_Monsieur _'olmes, you 'ave email, yes?"

"Of course," Sherlock scowled.

"So do I. I'd love to bring a case to you – if I 'ad one – but why in the world would I write you by post and in French? You are English, you 'ave email. Better to contact you that way, I think. Besides, this is not my 'andwriting."

"Do you recognize it?" Sherlock demanded.

"No, but as I said, this also 'appens to me."

"You're the mystery writer," John said, the name finally clicking as the pieces started to fit together.

"Of course," Georges replied, casting him a quick, puzzled glance. "You didn't know?"

"Someone didn't think it was necessary to do any research beforehand," John muttered, and Sherlock managed to look at least a little abashed – although the doctor doubted it was genuine. He'd probably get the blame later for not doing the background work. It _was_ often his job, after all, to do the tedious bits.

"I suspect someone has played us for fools," Sherlock said, voice verging on dark. John cleared his throat at the tone, giving the baby a pointed glance, and the detective glowered but nodded curtly.

"And you should have known," Sherlock continued, narrowing his eyes coolly at John. "You've read his work."

John raised an eyebrow in response but forewent pointing out that so had Sherlock – mostly because the books (which belonged to John, of course) had been pitched across the living room and the plotlines decried as the predictable offerings of a simplistic mind.

John, on the other hand, had thoroughly enjoyed them.

"'ave you?" Georges asked.

"Brilliant work," John said firmly, refusing to look his partner's way. "Rivals Sherlock's own."

"I doubt that," Georges laughed. "But thank you for saying so. Just a moment – I 'ave proof copies of the new one, let me get you each one."

Before Sherlock could protest or John could draw a breath to stop him doing so, Georges disappeared down the hallway again, leaving them with the baby, who was happily gurgling on Sherlock's knee. She took the opportunity to pitch the dummy halfway across the room and sat patiently waiting for half a moment before her tiny features began to crumple.

"Better get it," John said.

"I'm rather encumbered at the moment."

"She can't weigh more than ten kilos," John replied, but stood to scoop up the dummy, and a toy, so as to offset any infant distress. She took them happily, grinning around the pacifier at Sherlock. "She likes you."

"Don't get any ideas," Sherlock warned darkly. John only shrugged, delighting in the faint horror that rose in Sherlock's eyes.

Georges reappeared, two books in hand, pressing them into John's, who smiled and thanked him for the autographs and assured him they'd be well liked.

"What do you mean, this has happened to you?" John asked as the Frenchman settled back into his chair.

"Oh, the case, yes. I 'ave readers who like to send me little mysteries, and sometimes claim the stories 'ave 'appened to them – or to someone they know, perhaps a friend or a distant family member, never serious of course. Many of them are amusing and nothing more, but some of them are quite creative and detailed. I'm sure it 'appens to you all the time – false cases to get your attention… although perhaps they do not always get you to _Paris_."

"No," Sherlock said coldly. "They do not. So sorry to have bothered you Mister – Alexandre, it certainly was not our intention to impose."

"No imposition, I assure you," Georges said, oblivious to Sherlock's impatient shifting, the tense set of his muscles that John knew well meant the detective thought he was wasting his time. "It is not every day one gets to meet an internationally renowned sleuth. Do you mind if I keep this?" He tapped the letter resting next to him on the table. "It may be useful."

"Please do," Sherlock said, and John had to smother a smirk as his partner tried to figure out how to rise and hold a baby at the same time. Georges scooped her up expertly.

"I will 'ave something to tell my friends in the police," he said, still smiling broadly. John brushed his fingers against Sherlock's arm, letting them linger a moment, a warning to behave. "They will be jealous. They are big fans."

"Too bad the Met aren't," John murmured, feigning innocence when Sherlock scowled. He made sure to take the time to thank Georges and say good-bye politely, assuring the other man they'd enjoy Paris while they were here and that he'd promote the new book on his blog, all while aware of Sherlock's simmering, jittery impatience behind him. The door had barely closed behind them when Sherlock's hand was on his back, propelling him forcefully to the lift.

"Sherlock–"

"We have to go. _Now_."

"It wasn't _that_ bad–" John tried to protest, being half shoved into the lift as soon as there was enough space between the doors to fit through.

"We were lured out of London, John!"

"Lured?" John said. "Sherlock, it was a fake case–"

"Exactly!"

"And you told me just this morning that one of the emails you got was made up! This isn't the first time you've had a fake case, and you know it!"

"It's the first time it's got us out of London!"

"To what end?" John demanded as they reached the ground floor and Sherlock nearly dragged him from the building, the security guard looking startled as they hurried by. "It was sent five months ago! It's not an effective set up if it takes us half a year to get around to leaving!"

"Someone could be waiting on an opportunity–"

"What opportunity?" John interrupted, his own patience unwinding. "Christ, listen to yourself! Sending a letter that _might_ get us to leave London if you were interested enough to do so – and it's not like you couldn't have sorted this out from home! It's not exactly a good trap if we find out the bait is faked before we even left!"

"But that's not what happened, is it?" Sherlock pressed, pulling his mobile from his suit jacket pocket. "We're here, and we're meant to be in London." He put the phone to his ear, the flicker of his gaze to the middle distance silencing John's protests.

"Shut up, Mycroft," he said abruptly, ignoring John's faint warning huff. "Something's going to happen. You need to find out what it is. Now."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** There is sex in this chapter (in case you prefer to be warned about that).

* * *

><p>"He's lying."<p>

"He's not lying."

"Of course he's lying!"

"Why would he lie?"

"Because he's Mycroft!"

John sighed again, folding his arms and giving Sherlock his best captain's glower, inwardly pleased when the detective shifted, eyes darting away briefly.

"He wouldn't lie about this," John said. He was sure about that – he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to lie about anything else, but Britain was his one true love. John knew if there was any real hint of danger, the elder Holmes brother would do everything he could to protect it. If Sherlock was a resource, Mycroft would use him, even if it meant putting his baby brother in harm's way.

He had before, after all.

John would fight Mycroft tooth and nail on that, if it came to it – but here and now, there was nothing to fight. Nothing beyond the usual background criminal and terrorist chatter, nothing too loud or too quiet. Nothing that had caught Mycroft's very keen and honed senses.

And he _would_ be on alert for it, John knew, with both of them out of the country.

The way Sherlock shifted, annoyed, told John he knew it too. Knowing it and admitting it were two different things – admitting it meant owning up to the fact that a prank case had got them all the way to Paris for no good reason. John had no illusions that Sherlock would have preferred some imminent attack or complicated conspiracy if only because it would mean he was _right_ – and, of course, because it would let him go charging back to London instead of dithering on a Paris sidewalk, arguing about Mycroft's intentions.

"It could be Baker Street," Sherlock insisted, lips pursed into a thin, displeased line.

"Sherlock, everything's fine."

"Everything is never fine!" his partner snapped. "There's always something, John!"

"Everything is as fine as it could be. You _know_ Mycroft is watching the flat. He's always watching the flat!" He sighed again, fishing out his mobile. "But I'll have Greg and Amanda keep an eye on it, if it makes you happy."

"You said Harry and Amanda were going to watch it while we were away," Sherlock grouched, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, managing somehow to hunch his shoulders and tower over John at the same time.

"That doesn't mean they're temporarily moving in – and before you even suggest it, we are _not_ giving my sister the ground floor flat."

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed as John rolled his eyes and fired off a text to both DIs. He didn't have to wait long for a reply from either of them; even several months after Wales, they were still on alert.

They all were. John could feel it in himself, see it reflected in the tension that still settled into Sherlock's muscles despite his conversation with Mycroft. Would Sherlock before Wales have jumped to the conclusion they'd been led here deliberately? _Probably_, John thought – but he doubted his partner would be eyeing every passer-by so suspiciously, seeing connections that weren't really there.

For his part, he thought he saw a very bright and glaring one with Mycroft's name written all over it. Sherlock's brother had denied it when John suggested it, pointing out that he'd hardly go to all that trouble to arrange them a holiday, but John wasn't so sure he bought it.

That kind of game was right up Mycroft's street, and the doctor would have bet their house and all their savings that Sherlock would never knowingly accept such a gift from his brother. They needed a break, but Sherlock wouldn't have copped to that even if John had suggested it, say nothing of Mycroft.

"We're here now," John said, after satisfying Sherlock with the DIs' responses.

"Oh very well deduced, John. Your talent for stating the obvious is stronger than ever."

"You don't have a case," John continued, ignoring Sherlock's blatant eye roll at another obvious statement. "And we're not needed back in London."

"I am _always_ needed in London," Sherlock sniffed. "I've got an international reputation to maintain. I can't go gallivanting around the world at a moment's notice!"

"You did just say it was an international reputation," John pointed out, not even trying to smother the grin at Sherlock's irritated expression.

"For the _work_, John!"

"Well, even the world's only consulting detective is allowed holidays. You haven't _got_ any cases on, Sherlock. Only this morning, you wrote off everything in your inbox as a waste of time and tore up the flat trying to find something to do. Mycroft's got nothing for you, the Met's got nothing for you, and, as it turns out, neither does a famous French mystery author."

"All the more reason to go back!" Sherlock insisted. "There's nothing for us here!"

"There's Paris," John said.

"Do they give some kind of NHS award for stating the glaringly obvious?" Sherlock demanded.

"We're in Paris, in the summer, and without a case. And I don't know about you, but after being lost and stranded in Wales for three days, I think we've both earned a bit of a break."

"We were hardly stranded, John. The very word implies we were physically unable to leave–"

"We're on holiday, Sherlock. As of right now. Whether you like it or not."

"Whether I like it or not? An enforced holiday? How is that even possible?"

"I will make you enjoy it," John said, folding his arms again.

"What are you going to do? Drag me into enjoyment kicking and screaming?"

"If I have to," John said with a grin. "Especially the screaming bit." Sherlock stared at him for a brief moment, then rolled his eyes.

"Relax," John said. "Sherlock. _Relax_. We can take a few days without London falling apart, and if Greg needs you – if anyone _really_ needs you, they know how to get in touch with you. At worst, we're a two hour train ride away, and you _know_ Mycroft could send a jet. He's probably got one on stand by, just in case."

Sherlock shifted, annoyed, almost shrugging but refusing to meet John's eyes for a moment.

"What do you suggest we do?" he snapped.

"You've been here before, but I never have," John replied.

"You want to do _tourist_ things?" Sherlock groaned.

"Yep. And there's a certain debt I want to collect on. Repeatedly."

"It won't be any fun," Sherlock grouched.

"Really?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not _that_," Sherlock sighed. "The rest. There will be… people."

"And me," John reminded him.

"Yes, John, and obviously you."

"You won't have to talk to them," John said with a light shrug and a smile. "And I'll make sure you have fun." He could see Sherlock warring with himself, well past the point of defeat but not wanting to admit it.

"You will, will you?"

"Oh yeah," John replied.

"And how, pray tell?"

"I have my ways," John smiled. "Trust me."

Sherlock scowled again, and John knew he'd won.

"All right," the detective muttered. "But just this once."

* * *

><p>"Nope."<p>

Sherlock twisted, flipping the helmet's visor up, grey eyes narrowed at John.

"Nope?" he asked.

"Nope," John agreed.

"Nope to what?"

John nodded at the hotel across the street, refusing to relinquish his hold around Sherlock's waist.

"It's our hotel, John."

"Yeah I can see that. But we're not stopping here."

"You said you wanted to collect on your debt," Sherlock sniffed.

"I do," John said with a grin. "And I will. But it's a gorgeous day and it's been a long time since lunch. I'd like to see some of Paris and have something to eat – preferably at the same time. I'm willing to bet a detective with an international reputation knows a few places that fit that bill."

He didn't mention that Sherlock had been here during his nine month "death". John doubted his partner had done much in the way of tourist activities then. Even if he was complaining about it now (or at least glowering at John in a very complaining way), the doctor wanted to overlay some of those memories with more positive ones.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, snapping the visor shut. "Hold on."

John did, grinning behind his own visor as the city zipped past, the downward slope of the streets taking them toward the river. The Eiffel Tower came into view, and John made a mental note to buy them tickets when he had a moment on his phone without Sherlock paying attention – the detective might gripe and mutter, but John wanted to see it first hand, and he'd bet Sherlock had never actually been.

Sherlock parked the bike near the river and locked their helmets in the small box that seemed designed for that purpose; John couldn't resist a grin at the way Sherlock's curls were mashed so that only the ends sprang free. Sherlock huffed at the gaze and ruffled his hair until it approached something like its normal self, glaring at his reflection in his darkened phone screen until he was satisfied.

"Take your time," John said when the detective slipped his phone back into a pocket.

"I'm quite ready to get this over with," Sherlock snapped, which only made John grin more, lacing his fingers through his partner's and leading him down towards the river bank where a series of small cafés and restaurants were strung out, comfortable chairs and umbrellas enticing the tourists wandering by to stop.

The sun was beginning to slip toward the horizon, lengthening the shadows, but still bright in the sky. It was a bit chillier down by the water, but John didn't mind, especially when the restaurant he settled on (because asking Sherlock to pick was a fool's errand) provided them each with a blanket. John found them a slightly more private spot, tucked towards the back of the open air restaurant, low-slung seats partially obscured by large potted plants. He could see the river sliding by in the near distance, but they were less noticeable, and it was nice, he thought, to have a bit of anonymity.

He ordered them some food and a bottle of champagne, refusing to be put off by a sulk that had no serious bite to it. It would have been better if there had been a case; Sherlock didn't do well with that kind of disappointment, and it probably irked him not to be at home where he could tear up the flat or throw himself on the sofa like a proper drama queen.

The champagne came on ice and after the waiter had vanished, leaving them in relative peace, John shuffled his chair up next to his partner's, spreading the blankets over both of them. He sat back with his glass, other hand finding Sherlock's beneath the covers, lacing their fingers together.

The food came and went, and Sherlock ate without complaining, which John considered a minor miracle. The detective had finally managed to regain the weight nine months in hiding and three days lost in Wales had stolen from him, but John kept a sharp eye on it anyway, knowing Sherlock did the same to him. When their plates had been cleared away, John refreshed their drinks, refitting the blankets carefully.

"Why him?" Sherlock demanded suddenly. "Why Georges?"

"Sherlock," John sighed.

"It must mean something, John!"

"Yes. It means Mycroft's been in our flat – repeatedly – and because you're both creepily observant, he's seen that I've got some of his books."

"He said he didn't do it," Sherlock muttered.

"Bollocks. He knows I like Alexandre's writing and that you probably hate it, and he wanted you to take a holiday. _Us_ to take a holiday. He couldn't just offer – you'd have said no, and anyway, that's not like him."

"Mycroft doesn't do _nice_," Sherlock said.

_He tries. Sometimes,_ John thought, but didn't bother arguing the point.

"Besides–"

"Shut up," John said.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, derailed suddenly from whatever complaint he'd had, grey eyes narrowing.

"I said, shut up. I don't want to talk about your brother. Neither do you, frankly."

Sherlock stared at him a moment, then slouched down further in his chair.

"What _do_ you want to talk about?" he muttered. "Something trivial, no doubt."

"Nope," John said, ignoring the eyebrow raised pointedly. "I don't want to talk about anything."

"So we'll just sit here, shall we?"

"Not that either," John replied with a grin, catching Sherlock's chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling his partner into a slow kiss. He pulled away when Sherlock tensed, moving back just far enough to see the reluctance in the detective's eyes.

They were usually very careful about public displays; Sherlock's reputation was for his work, and John had no desire to make their personal life a source of tabloid discussion.

But this wasn't London, and no one really knew them here. The woven bamboo trellis overhead obscured them from those passing by at street level, and sheltered as they were by the plants, they weren't particularly visible to the other restaurant patrons – even if anyone had been paying attention them.

He could see Sherlock coming to the same conclusion, grey eyes flickering past John briefly before meeting his gaze again. It would be nice, John thought, not to be constantly on his guard about who might be watching.

He tipped his head forward slightly, pausing to give Sherlock a chance to stop it if he wanted. Sherlock didn't move, didn't pull away or meet him, but his lips parted slightly and John took the unspoken invitation, kissing him again.

He kept it slow, without any demands, until he felt the tension begin to ease from Sherlock's muscles. John shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable without breaking the kiss, resting a hand on Sherlock's left leg, just above the knee, thumb brushing along the inseam of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock stiffened again, muscles tightening under John's fingers, and the doctor pulled away slowly, resting their foreheads together. Sherlock's pupils were slightly dilated but there was an uncertain set to his features. John let his hand slide down to Sherlock's knee, a slightly more neutral touch.

They'd never actually had sex in public before, although there had been a few times when waiting to get back to Baker Street (or at least somewhere private) had been a near thing – those times, both of them had been on a post-case high, buzzing with adrenaline and triumph, desperate and impatient.

Now, Sherlock had time to think about it, to let possibly better judgment overrule his body's responses.

"Want to stop?" John murmured, because as much as he intended to collect on his debt, he wasn't going to put Sherlock into an uncomfortable position. He hung onto that resolve when Sherlock's tongue darted distractingly over his lower lip.

"Someone might notice," the detective replied.

"Maybe," John agreed. "But we're under blankets. And if you stay quiet and let me do the work…"

Sherlock licked his lips again, quickly, eyes darkening even more before he gave a short, curt nod.

"You sure?" John asked. The brief, irritated look made him smile, and he kissed away the annoyance. He let his hand trail upward again, keeping the motions slow enough to let Sherlock adjust, but light enough that it didn't encourage too much relaxation. It felt like a minor victory when Sherlock spread his legs slightly, giving John better access.

He didn't take full advantage of it, not yet, letting his thumb drift almost to the point of being too high before tracing back down the outside of Sherlock's thigh. The detective pulled out of their kiss with a faint huff, and John smiled.

"Patience," he murmured, cutting off any reply with another kiss. Sherlock had done a decent job learning that over the past few months – at least in this very specialized area – but his generally impatient nature still won out more often than not.

He brushed his fingertips upward again, pausing to dig his thumb into dense quadriceps muscles, the sight of Sherlock's teeth catching his lower lip against a groan shooting straight to John's groin. He shifted slightly, aware that his jeans were becoming pleasantly restrictive, enjoying the sensation. His fingers closed over Sherlock's when the detective tried to reciprocate, and John shook his head.

"You first," he whispered, a thrum of pleasure shooting down his nerves when Sherlock swallowed hard. He wanted to dip his head, kiss and suck on that gorgeous neck, but that probably _would_ draw attention to them.

Sherlock gave another quick nod, eyes fluttering closed, and John trailed his hand all the way up, skimming his fingers over his partner's growing erection. Sherlock gasped, a quiet sound that John felt more than heard, lips pursing to contain a moan when John pressed down, running his thumb along the shaft.

He eased up, feeling the shudder that ran through Sherlock's body in response, and let his fingers drop back down, passing teasingly over Sherlock's balls. A deeper shudder made John smile, and he kissed Sherlock again, using the touch to keep his partner quiet as he tickled and scratched his nails lightly over the fabric of Sherlock's trousers.

"John."

The word settled in John's groin, making the pleasure sharper, more intense, as he pressed two fingers against the base of Sherlock's shaft. Muscles tightened, fighting the urge to thrust, and John paused, giving Sherlock a moment to get himself back under control.

He pressed down with his palm, brushing over the damp spot at the head with his thumb, swallowing a tiny whimper. John dragged his first two fingers up, pressing on either side of the head, and tugged lightly. Sherlock came with a quiet, startled gasp, and John swept his thumb over the damp spot again, humming against his partner's lips as Sherlock shuddered.

He broke the kiss, resting their foreheads together, watching the relief sweep across Sherlock's features. For a long moment, the detective was still before blinking open pupil-darkened eyes. A smile touched the edges of Sherlock's lips – a genuine one, not a knowing smirk – and he brushed their noses together, almost but not quite kissing. John repressed a shudder of his own, acutely aware of Sherlock's smell and the desperate tightness in his groin. He wanted Sherlock's hands on him but swallowed against a plea, keeping himself quiet.

The sound of his zipper being opened was almost shockingly loud – there was no way anyone else could have heard it, but John felt sure they'd be caught now. The momentary panic fled, as did every other rational thought, when two long violinist's fingers wormed into his pants, rubbing over his cockhead. John gripped the arm of his chair under the blankets, white-knuckled, when Sherlock traced down the shaft with his index finger, drawing slick, random patterns.

Lips touched his, warm and relaxed where John's were tense, and he couldn't quite stop his hips from pushing upward when Sherlock swiped his thumb across the head. John's teeth sunk into Sherlock's lower lip when Sherlock's pressed down, fingers echoing the tugging motion John had just used on him.

The moment seemed suspended, as if it would go on forever, the pleasure making him ache. He shuddered as it peaked, half-convinced someone must have noticed by now, because it must have been ages since they started, but the sounds of the restaurant drifted back to him, the unconcerned clink of cutlery and glass, the undisturbed murmur of conversation.

"Christ," John exhaled quietly, relaxing again, able to ease his grip on the arm of the chair. Sherlock's lips quirked again, more wryly this time, but with a satiated warmth that John loved, that was his and his alone.

"I think I might need a drink," he murmured. Sherlock hummed, brushing their lips together, and the champagne glass was pressed lightly into his hand, filled almost to the brim. Sherlock's was half empty, and the detective didn't miss the look John gave it.

"I'm driving," his partner reminded him. "You'll have to finish the rest."

"That puts you at a disadvantage," John pointed out, not quite able to resist running his fingers into Sherlock's short curls, letting one slide through his thumb and forefinger. "Or me, depending on how you look at it."

"They'll have champagne at the hotel. And room service. I imagine our bed is quite comfortable, too."

"I'd like to test that theory," John said with a grin.

"It's best not to rush good champagne," Sherlock pointed out. "And you're the one who insists I be patient. Now it's your turn."

"I can wait," John assured him.

"I will make it worth your while," Sherlock promised.

"I know," John said with a grin. "You always do."


End file.
